


Fiduciam

by LysanderandHermia



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Communication, Established Relationship, I abuse the tags, M/M, Nonverbal Communication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Q's cats as ex machinas, Smut, Spies being huge dorks, Trust Issues, don't ever let me use the tags, probably bc lets be real this is me we're talking about, such as but not limited to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-09-19 19:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LysanderandHermia/pseuds/LysanderandHermia
Summary: Q knows what James has been through. He knows, and so he doesn’t say anything else as James leaves, because if James can’t trust him right now, Q has to trust him to come back when he’s ready to talk.-----Written for the 2016/17 00Q Reverse Bang!-----The one where Q has a tumultuous past as well, and Bond's imagination runs amok when there's not enough context. (or, both of these assholes have trust issues and don't like talking about the past, and it Causes Problems)





	1. Fiduciam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skylocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylocked/gifts).



> This is my first foray into participating in a fandom wide event, and I've had so much fun! This fic will get updated every other day until all the chapters are up, because I'm being a goddamn perfectionist and keep tweaking with things in later chapters.
> 
> James and Q are my babies and they will have a very happy ending don't you worry about that, despite this beginning. 
> 
> **THE MOST WONDERFUL[SKY](http://www.skylocked.tumblr.com) DID THE BEAUTIFUL ARTWORK THIS FIC WAS INSPIRED BY AND I HUMBLY DEMAND THAT YOU GO FOLLOW AND LOVE THEM ON THEIR TUMBLR, TWITTER, AND ALL OTHER PLATFORMS MMMKAY??? (whispers they're also sending more gorgeous artwork my way for later chapters aaaaaaahhhhh) **
> 
> Thanks also to Nola for hosting this shindig and doing such a lovely job keeping us all on track, as well as to my [bee](http://www.grand-taire.tumblr.com) and [Brihna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Brihna) for betaing for me!

 

It’s never smooth. 

James is always gone, usually injured in some way when he  _ is _ home, and despite off and on attempts, has very bad habits that both he and Q wish they could break him of. 

Q works long hours, is constantly on call, and is obsessed with his tech in a way that slowly drives James crazy to the point where he’ll lock away anything with a screen (including the telly) for hours on end and throw away the key.

And they fight. They fight  _ a lot _ . Everything from silent, angry looks, to throwing things across the flat in anger. But never  _ at _ each other, just at the wall they’ve eventually left devoid of a picture frame after the third time they shattered it. 

It’s never smooth, but it’s a blast, and it’s good. It’s  _ so _ good.

They complement each other in amazing, tumultuous, easy ways. Q fixes up the flat to a level of security where James loses the habit of stalking through the entire place ‘just to be sure’. He doesn’t even notice it happening until Q points it out. James creates extravagant meals when he’s home and Q never realizes how good for him they are until he finds the bookmarked recipes on Bond’s chromebook, finds how full his favorite dishes are of ingredients he professes to hate. 

Q makes a mess and James tidies behind him. James doesn’t sleep easily and Q only holds him closer on bad nights and never complains. Bond helps Q learn the tango and waltz to complement his clubbing style. Q helps Bond brush up on the software he’s less familiar with to a more satisfactory (in Q’s opinion) hacking level. 

They each take better care of themselves under the watchful eyes of their partner. Married life, while neither of them had been expecting or looking for it, was exhausting and thrilling and perfectly balanced for them to never grow tired of each other. 

Q stares at the broken photograph lying sideways on the hall table, picking it up to examine closer; he has the photo and memory behind firmly committed to memory.  _ Our wedding. Three years ago. James was telling me an awful joke. I was four glasses of champagne in and having trouble standing upright on my own. What was it again? Did you hear the one about the cat that drank five bowls of water?  _ Q smiles at the thought, turning in surprise when he hears the door open and a tired husband stumbles through.

“Hey, dove,” Q greets, stepping forwards to pull the heavy pack from James’ shoulder, smoothing the jacket off him next with a practiced slide of fingers. James sighs heavily and leans just so against Q.  _ Not injured, but exhausted, maybe bruised.  _ The younger man lifts James’ head in his hands, running his thumbs gently over the tired lines there, and gives him a soft kiss, “Welcome home.”

It isn’t until Bond tenses in his arms that he remembers the mess, until the man pulls away and takes a step back in the already confined hallway.  _ Cornered. _ Q takes a step or two away, as casually as possible. James hates it when Q coddles him, though Q can argue it very well isn’t coddling; it’s looking after him and avoiding his triggers where he can. “I was just tidying up,” Q finds himself saying, not quite defensive, but close.

“Seriously, Q? I only left three days ago. Look at the place.” Bond’s voice is exasperated. Q is sure his own tone isn’t much better, despite wanting to smooth the situation over. All he wants is to take care of James and get him tucked into bed - a hard enough feat on a good day.

“Yeah, well…” Q glances down the hallway behind them, into the flat, keeping the wince off his face. Yes, he’s made his usual mess over the course of three days, but the rest isn’t him. Someone ransacked the house and Q is loathe to mention it to Bond. They’ve already apprehended the man, who’d broken into the most secure flat on their side of the Thames. (Not MI6 related, just a lucky prick looking for anything expensive that wasn’t nailed down).  _ Ashton Morris, 32, divorced, two kids, no prospects, desperate.  _ All their things are accounted for, but Q hasn’t cleaned up yet and Bond got back earlier than expected. He’s not sure what to say, so he shrugs, and the embarrassment and guilt on his face for lying to his husband does a terrific job of telling it all the smoother. “I got drunk.”

Raising an eyebrow, Bond grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything for a long moment, staring Q down. “You got drunk and trashed our flat,” he says, tone disbelieving and strangely hollow.  _ Worse, now. He doesn’t believe me, feels underappreciated. _ Q doesn’t flinch, MI6 training giving him some sort of edge, though it’s not as good a poker face as James’. 

“Yeah, and I’ll clean it up. Was, before you got home.” Q attempts to step forwards and take hold of James again, but the man only allows it for a few moments before he slips out of Q’s loose arms -  _ always loose, never constricting, never pin him down _ \- and steps past him into the flat proper.

Q watches as James’ eyes scan over the scattered books, the thrown around pillows, the ransacked drawers, probably recreating the scene in his head; one that’s obvious to him but that Q hasn’t been able to pick out over the course of an hour.  _ Where did he start? What did he go for first?  _

“You didn’t do this.” Q visibly flinches at the frigidness in James’ voice, and he knows he’s fucked up before the man turns around, eyes bright blue chips of the same thing his voice is currently crafted from.  _ Slow breathing, hunched shoulders, wide stance. Ready to fight. _ Q shifts accordingly, doing everything he can in body language to be placating and soothing. “Someone broke in. Why are you lying to me?”

His gut drops at that, as does his gaze, and Q sighs, running a hand through his hair.  _ Damn it.  _ “James, calm down, okay?”  _ Wrong thing to say _ , Q chides himself as James only tenses further, “Look, I just didn’t want to worry you. Nothing got taken, he’s already in custody, there’s nothing to worry abo-”

“ _ Someone broke in.  _ There’s plenty to be bloody worried about,” the agent snarls, snapping into movement and beginning to pace, and Q fidgets slightly, growing anxious himself, though for where this conversation is headed rather than the fact that someone other than them had been in their flat earlier in the day.

“James,” he tries again, voice as firm as he can make it, “Everything is under control. I wanted to have this cleaned up before you got home, so you could just relax. He got lucky.”  _ Wrong again, _ he sighs as the other man starts laughing, though there’s no mirth in it, just bitterness.

“Lucky? Q, do you hear yourself? This place is supposed to be secure. And someone got in on  _ luck _ ?” 

Flushing, Q finds anger crawling up his chest, followed closely by indignation and hurt, “Hey, don’t take this out on me. Our flat is just as well protected as Six.”   
  
James snorts, and Q clenches his hands into fists, shame bubbling, “Obviously not.” James stalks past Q back to the door, yanking on his coat. It’s not the first time James has stormed out and run off to cool down, but it’s the first time that Q thinks about trying to stop him. Tears are pricking at his eyes, his adrenaline pumping, and he knows they’re both overwhelmed and overreacting and James at least, is exhausted.  _ Breathe _ .

“Don’t go,” the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and Q folds his arms over his chest, what he wants and what he knows James needs warring within himself. This works because they understand each other, because they don’t ask more than the other can give, because they can both shoulder more than their share at times. “Please, James, not tonight. Let’s just go to bed. I’m sorry, I was just trying to help. I know I did it badly.”

James fiddles with his jacket, and Q didn’t think he’d even consider it, holds his breath.  _ Please. _ But he gives Q a soft, sad look, and in it Q can read everything James can’t say just now, might not be able to put into words even tomorrow.  _ I’m sorry too. I don’t know how to be here right now. You’ve bruised the trust I put in you. _ Q knows what James has been through. He knows, and so he doesn’t say anything else as James leaves, because if James can’t trust him right now, Q has to trust him to come back when he’s ready to talk.

The cats come out a minute later to twine around their owner’s legs, mewling in gentle sympathy. Q isn’t even sure why he lied in the first place, other than to try and save James the panic and headache that was dealing with their flat being broken into. That, and he’s been lying about and to himself since he was in Uni.  _ Not again _ , Q promises himself, picking up the photo of their wedding and glaring at the glass, reflecting light in fragmented irony, thinking of the day again.  _ It set a new lap record. _ Q smiles, softly, sadly, fingers running gently over the surface of the photo, then sets it upright on the table and gets to work cleaning.

It’s never smooth.


	2. Iniuria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James does some introspection, and he and Q make a Decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cuddles!
> 
> i had a bad day so i'm uploading this chapter early

James walks for a long while, leaving his car on the street while he breathes in London and only stopping when he gets hungry. He eats at a little Thai place, trying to piece together Q’s reasoning as he works his way through the green curry, eyes on the door every time it opens.  _ You’re fine, cut the shit and calm down, damn it _ . It doesn’t make sense, why Q would lie, unless he’d done it before and gotten away with it, and thought he could again. He swallows the next bite with difficulty, frowning. That’s the problem, really. He doesn’t know if this is the first or the fifteenth time Q hasn’t told him the truth about something, and the spiraling thoughts turn faster and faster until he’s teetering on the edge of throwing everything he knows about Q into the whirlwind. It stings worse than the bruises along his right side from his latest venture in the field. 

_ He loves you. _

It’s anchoring, and James hates himself for it. Love is painful; love is bared teeth and sharp claws and terrifying to look at too closely. In moments like this, he almost hates how much and dearly and desperately he loves Q. The man can always read him, knows what he needs, makes him feel like the person he wishes he was.  _ He deserves better than me. _ The thought feels less true every time he thinks it. 

He heads for the nearest bar, because he still doesn’t know how to come to terms with any of those complicated emotions that well up in lieu of that false-feeling statement. He doesn’t know what to do to make himself okay again.  _ Q lied. _ Why? Q gave him his reason. James ponders it over his third glass of scotch, arms folded on the bar and head resting blandly on them as he gazes across the room without seeing it. Q doesn’t want him to worry.  _ Ha. _ Would Q have mentioned it later, after he’d settled back in and gotten a night’s rest? Had he not caught an earlier flight, Q would have probably greeted him to a strangely clean flat and dinner, along with a drink and fingers carding softly through his hair. James can’t help a small smile that slips sideways across his mouth. How terribly domestic of them. 

Surprisingly - or, unsurprisingly, he supposes, at this point - he doesn’t mind the thought so much now. There’s some stock in coming home to someone happy and excited to see you, even if the cats still silently hate you. 

When James heads back out into the chilly air, it’s a great deal drunker, but things feel clearer and he finds his way to one of the safe houses that he’s kept keys to and never bothered to return to Six. After a thorough search, he flops onto the sofa and lets his head fall back against the cushions, feeling his muscles finally unknot from stress, travel, and anger. Staring at the ceiling, he takes a deep breath.  _ Okay. Focus. What do you know?  _ He knows that Q takes care of him, even when he’s incapable of accepting help; he does it so, so gently that James has trouble seeing it unless he’s constantly on the lookout. Q cares for him - for his wellbeing, both physically and mentally. Q accepts his many, many faults without a moment’s pause. The younger man pushes him when he needs to be pushed and he can stand up to James, something no one else has managed to do. He’ll hold his ground if he thinks it’s worth the fight, which, yeah, usually it is.  _ Q loves me. _

He gets a glass of water and stares out the window at the brick wall of the opposite building across the narrow alleyway.  _ Has Q lied before?  _ James can’t be sure, but he’s never caught him in one before, or suspected him of it. When asked direct questions, Q has always given a straight answer back, and when he hasn’t been able to answer, he’s explained why to satisfaction. Q simply isn’t the type of person to lie. Maybe he did in the past; James doesn’t know a lot about Q’s history - even his real name - but neither of them seem to like talking about that. Bits and pieces have been divulged slowly, slipping over time into comments between bites of sandwiches and lulls in films. He does, however, have a very good grasp of Q’s life since they started seeing each other. It’s never been omittance of fact, it’s been a silent agreement of  _ let’s not talk about it.  _ And honestly? James appreciates it. He hates the past. 

Somewhere in the calming storm of his mind, amongst walking through his hurts and worries, inside warm memories, James falls asleep.

He can’t bring himself to go home for another day, but when he does show up, it’s with breakfast in the form of sugar coated donuts, and fancy coffee from the artisan place down the street that Q adores. 

He knocks instead of letting himself in, as always after this sort of thing happens, and, as always, hears the lock disengage a moment later and watches the door pull inward as Q appears, hair a wild mess. James smiles, and knows what to say, and just like that, it’s easy again. “Hi sleepyhead,” he says, handing over the paper bag and one of the coffees. Q yawns as he takes them, has an appreciative sip of the coffee - a rare treat - and lets out a noise that James normally only hears in the bedroom, making his smile grow wider.

“Mm, thanks for the food,” Q mumbles, still half awake, and makes his way to the sofa, dropping onto it and curling himself up comfortably while, for the first time in a long while, James takes a walk through the house.  _ Clean, everything’s where it should be. Two people and two cats, as usual. _ When James takes a seat and wraps an arm hesitantly around him, Q simply folds himself the other way and gets cozy against James’ side, munching through the pastries and taking sips of his coffee steadily.

It’s comfortable, and the morning is spent sitting and pressing quiet kisses to soft places, gentle “I’m sorry”s and tender “I forgive you”s. Q is sprawled across the length of James and they’re sideways on the couch, soaking in each other’s presence when Q finally speaks up, the first real words either of them has said.

“I have an idea,” he starts, fingers tracing numbers into the skin of James’ forearm, “I know that… I mean, it feels weird to me too, that someone was here, that we didn’t invite or want, that went through our things.” Q’s finger hatching turns into soothing circles as he feels the muscles underneath his fingertips tense slightly.  _ Adaptive. Clever. Helpful.  _ James’ thoughts rise up like storm clouds and he fights them off mentally, concentrating on Q, staying quiet. “I think we should move.”

James’ face is a mixture of confusion and interest when Q glances up to gauge it, and he presses on because of it, “I mean, this is my flat from before, and it’s small. The water takes forever to heat up anyways, and this way, it’d be fresh and new, and it wouldn’t have this feeling of…” he pauses, frowning as he searches for the word. 

“Invasion?” James offers, and Q nods, propping himself up on an elbow to stare down at James with a smile and a raised eyebrow. James reads the question there.  _ What do you think? _

_ This _ . This is why James loves Q so much, because they can talk about the issue without getting into the grit of why and how and when. Why don’t you trust people, James? How can I make you trust me again? When did this all start and what do we do to fix it? Q has never asked these questions, ever, and it’s the most breathtaking thing in James’ world, to not be looked at like something that  _ needs fixing _ . 

He is who he is, and Q doesn’t mind, just learns and moves past it, says so many things between his words - hey, I fucked it up a bit, didn’t I? Next time, I’ll call you the moment I know something like this happened, and we can worry about it together. I have a solution to make you feel safe in our house again, and it’ll be an adventure on top of it. All that aside, it’s something we’ve meant to do and haven’t bothered tackling yet. It takes away so much guilt that James feels in his gut, Q offering him a suggestion that’s practical as well and not solely offered because he’s never going to sleep soundly in this place again, because someone’s  _ been here _ without their consent. 

James smooths his fingers up Q’s side, cotton shirt soft against his palm, Q’s ribs warm to his touch. “You’re just fishing for a compliment at your genius,” he says, making Q grin widely, and James kisses him, “As long as we’re not in Chelsea or Knotting Hill, that sounds like a great plan.”  _ Ever inventive and brilliant, my Q. _

The cats hate the boxes and furniture that move about and out of the place over the course of the next week, but James and Q are settling into a new home in Knightsbridge by the end of the month, and the bruises are healing, if slowly. James walks through the flat every time he comes home, and Q only can stand and watch, arms folded over his chest and mixed emotions hiding behind his glasses. 


	3. Imago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James discovers a secret, and is perplexed when Q doesn't mention it.
> 
> He's also a huge dork and I love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ENJOY THE CUTENESS CAUSE NEXT IT GETS A BIT MORE PAINFUL BEFORE THE HAPPY ENDING.

Mornings drag on and on. It’s why James usually avoids them when he has half the chance. Puttering about while on mandatory three day leave from the field and determined to clean the new flat up to his standards, James sorts through two boxes of clothes, then unloads one more of books. He’s starting in on sorting through what looks to be a mess of paperwork, some books, pens and other paraphernalia that Q must have swept with one arm off of a surface and into yet another box when he hears soft mewls from under the bed. 

Leaving his work on the duvet and the paperwork he’s started sorting through all over the bed and dropping to his knees, James peers under the bed to find two pairs of eyes blinking back at him, letting out a sigh. The cats have yet to venture out from underneath their hiding spot, everything still new and scary in the new flat, despite the lure of fresh tuna in their food bowls.

“We’ve been here for a week,” he reasons, getting comfortable on his stomach so he can stretch a hand underneath the space tentatively. The cats don’t respond apart from a sarcastic sounding mewl from Sulu. James tries again, “Come on, you silly things, it’s not that bad out here, honestly. I know you’ve been sneaking out at night to eat and piss.” Ada simply gives him a disapproving look, her tail twitching in annoyance. He wiggles his fingers at them, and Sulu ventures a bit closer, sniffing at the tips of them. It happens so fast he isn’t sure which of them it is, but one moment there’s a wet nose at his fingertips, and the next, he’s being bit and clawed.  

James swears and yanks his arm away, head jerking up, and cracks it nicely on the wooden bedframe. Rolling away and getting out from underneath the bed - _ little buggers - _ he blindly reaches up to pull himself onto his knees again, more focused on how badly his hand has been maimed and the splitting headache he now has. With fantastic precision, James upends the rest of the box he’d been unpacking onto himself and the floor, yelping as he goes backwards, landing in a very undignified heap. The crash sends the cats both bolting out into the living room somewhere, and James lays there on the floor for a moment, silently thanking God that Q isn’t here to witness his embarrassment. 

Leaving the mess on the floor, James gets up, ears the slightest bit pink at how foolish he feels. He’s a double-oh agent, for chrissake. Closer inspection of his wounds prove them to be more superficial than anything else; he cleans it up with some peroxide and a plaster or two, then has a bit more of the drink he’s been nursing all morning, topping it off again before returning to the slumped over box, its innards thrown across the floor. 

It doesn’t take long to clean up; James just tosses most of it back into the box, but the books catch his eye and he gathers the three volumes up. One is their wedding album - James has a matching one, and he smiles, turning to place it on the bookshelf with the rest of the books. Another is what looks like a bound copy of… _ A dissertation? _ James flips through the first couple of pages before going back to the title page, frowning.  _ Some sort of college paper? _ He doesn’t recognize the name, and his mouth goes dry with a sudden realization. It has to be Q’s. Who would keep someone else’s final papers from Uni? And it has to do with robotics, so it’s certainly up Q’s line of work and interest. He stares at the name on the inside cover page again, committing it to memory, then places it back in the box of paperwork. 

A feeling of unease slips through him as he turns his gaze to the last book in his hand, more squat than most books. He recognizes it as an album, even as opening it to the first page confirms it. One photo sits there, squared in the middle, the edges of the photo worn, like they only got moved to the album after years of being kept in a drawer, folded inside a book, moved again, pinned to a wall, perhaps. It takes James a long moment to actually focus on the photograph itself rather than analyzing its wear and tear. 

Two babies sit in highchairs. There’s cake everywhere, and part of the word ‘birthday’ is visible on the part of the cake that hasn’t been cut up and destroyed. The two kids are mid laughter, full of mirth and covered in pink cake, and James feels the corners of his mouth turning up just slightly. Kids are alright. They both have dark hair, but James can’t really tell which one is Q, and he’s even guessing that much, since the album isn’t his. That, and, well. Q must have taken after his father, because the grinning grown man on the left looks  _ very _ much like him. Tall, lanky, mischievousness in his eyes. The woman on the other side is turned towards the children, but her smile is wide, features soft. 

James closes it, and sits on the bed, perching on the paper free corner. He feels a bit like he’s prying into something Q wouldn’t want him to. Pasts aren’t things either of them has ever really wanted to talk about at length, and if Q had wanted him to see the album, it would have come up at some point.  _ Right? Right. _

Resolute, he puts the album back in the box with the dissertation, takes the wedding album back off the bookshelf and sets it in as well, then gathers the papers off the bed and shoves the whole box across the floor and into the closet. Q has never pried into James’ hellish past; James is certainly not going to do him the disservice of poking through things he has no right to, despite being married. 

When Q gets home, there’s the smell of food cooking, James waiting with a glass of wine to greet him, and a long slow kiss against the door once it clicks closed. James pulls away enough to give Q his breath back, and the younger man adjusts his glasses and grins. “Missed you too,” he laughs, accepting the wine and planting another kiss to the corner of James’ mouth, “What’d you get up to today?” They move into the kitchen, and James checks the oven and the timer as he responds. 

“Cleaned. Got mauled by one of your cats. Cooked some food. I have some premade lunches for you for the next few days,” he glances up at Q, who looks fittingly guilty for having forgotten to eat through the afternoon, “And dinner is almost finished. Biryani with lamb.” 

The happy coo Q gives out with his favorite meal being on the menu for dinner makes Bond smile, and they eat on the couch together once it’s ready. Q sits sideways on the seat, his legs over Bond’s lap. “It’s the perfect amount of spicy,” Q praises, eyes shut as he savors the last bite on his plate, “I’ll clean up the dishes,” he offers, and James relaxes more comfortably in his seat as Q plucks his plate up too and heads off. He hates doing dishes. 

“I found a box of what I think are your things,” he calls after Q, “It’s a bunch of paperwork? Looks like you scooped it up and dumped it all in.”

“Oh! Thanks, I’ll take care of that later. Mostly junk I just need to sort through. God, I hate moving,” Q comes back into James’ view, smiling. The dishwasher is going in the background, and James holds out a hand for Q lazily, pulling the man into his lap, eliciting a smirk. 

“No, you hate having to  _ organize _ things,” James chides, “I can do it for you if you’d rather,” he offers, because he’s been thinking about the album all afternoon, like an itch he can’t quite reach, and it’s driving him crazy already. It’s not cheating, to offer. He can find it again and then ask Q about it; go from there. 

Q smiles and smooths his fingers over James’ shoulders, but shakes his head, “You’ve unpacked more than your fair share, James. My turn to do some.”

As if to prove his point, he gives James a long kiss, arms looped around his neck, before slipping off his lap and hefting up a box full of computer parts in the corner. He throws him a wink, and then disappears into the bedroom. James listens for a while, hearing Q shifting things about, and sips at his drink, considering. Maybe Q would find it and show it to him? Maybe he’s just forgotten about having it, until he sees it. James himself is much more spartan in his ownership of things, but there were times in Uni he’d come across things he’d completely forgotten he owned. 

James’ eyes go towards the bedroom, brow creasing slightly. Q had lied to him about the man breaking into their flat. He hates himself for it, but he’s a suspicious bugger, and something about the album doesn’t sit right. He’s never seen it before in their old flat. Did the man who’d broken in plant it there as some sort of lure? Did he just completely miss seeing it? Or is Q hiding more things from him? Important things? 

He doesn’t realize he’s been sitting and staring down at the glass of wine in his hands until Q moves directly in front of him, into his field of vision. Blinking, he looks up, offering Q a tired smile, worn out from the thoughts in his head.

“You okay, James?” Q’s voice is soft, and he slips onto the couch, arm going around James’ shoulders.

James lifts a shoulder, and nods, “Yeah, just got caught up in my head,” He reaches out and smooths a palm over Q’s thigh, giving him another smile, “You done unpacking for the night?” 

Sighing dramatically, Q nods with a smile, but takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes. James sets them on the table before they fall off the man’s lap, “Yeah, went through a bunch of stuff. Most of it just needs binning.” He relaxes into James’ side, fingers skimming over the older man’s ribs, “Old things I never cleaned out last time I moved,” he straightens up after a time and stands, offering a hand out to James, expression shifting to something more playful, “Come on, James. It’s been a long day, and I found a half full bottle of Macallan in one of those boxes and a DVD of The Princess Bride. Let’s play our drinking game.”   
  
James grins, standing, and follows Q to the bedroom before pushing him down onto the bed, hand smoothing up and under his shirt, pressing a kiss to his jaw, “You know, this game is rigged in favor of the lightweight in the group, which in this case, is you,” he teases against the crook of Q’s jaw, making the man underneath him wriggle suggestively, even as Q giggles. 

“Why the hell are you complaining?” 

James can’t really argue with that. When they’re halfway through the film, James glances over to where he’d left the box. It’s been shifted to near the door, but there’s only a few handfuls of loose papers in it now. The albums and dissertation are gone. 


	4. Absconditus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I start things but never finish? 
> 
> Me too. Sorry, Sky. I promise to do right by your art, it's coming! 
> 
> :D

It festers, and gets ugly quickly. James doesn’t know what to do. At least, that’s what he tells himself every time Q is out of the house. He knows exactly what to do - forget about it, and let it go. It’s just a photo book.

The pages beyond that first birthday party photo haunt him, and he doesn’t even know what’s in there. More baby pictures? Q’s family, his life, before he came to be at MI6? He does his best to rationalize his burning need to know for sure, but the fire fans out of control all too quickly. It’s probably just baby photos, something his mum gave to him one year for the sole purpose of embarrassing him.

_ Then why is it suddenly missing? _ James hasn’t seen it sitting anywhere, and it’s not tucked on the bookshelf. It’s not in the closet, and he knows Q didn’t throw it out.  _ He’s hiding it.  _ And James doesn’t know what to think of that, other than the traitorous thoughts that tell him Q doesn’t trust him to show him, that by hiding it, Q is  _ hiding something. _

When he does find it, it’s quite by accident; Q cuts his finger while cooking and James needs to pull the few drops of blood out of the carpet from where Q made a mad dash for the bathroom and the first aid kit. He’s under the sink pulling out the carpet cleaner when he sees the red cover wedged up between the pipes and the wall of the cabinet, barely visible. James swallows thickly, but turns away, and gets to work on the task at hand, giving the carpet the scrub of its life.

He’s completely thrown. Q tucking it somewhere more normal would have almost assuaged his worry that Q was hiding something; it would have been an invitation to ask. Stored somewhere like that, where it’s obviously being hidden… he doesn’t know what to think.  _ Q has something to hide. _

His brain goes into overdrive. A hidden second life; a dark past; sensitive information he shouldn’t have. Nuclear codes, hidden in mundane photographs? A family somewhere? Sixteen more cats?

Q isn’t stupid, and can tell something’s off with James, but the man won’t let on what’s bothering him, no matter how many times Q gently presses for information. Instead, they go to bed after finishing the film they’d been watching, Q tapping away on his tablet for several more hours and James lying on his side, eyes fixed on the bedroom door, staring straight through it and to the kitchen.

By the morning, James’ head has gotten so caught up in the whirlwind that he feels like Q is watching his every move; he’s going to betray him too, just like Madeline, just like Vesper. Just like everyone else. It’s not fair to Q and everything he’s done to prove he’s not like them, when the man comes up for a kiss goodbye, but James can only glare at him for a long moment before stomping off to the bedroom. He knows Q is frozen still in surprise, watching after him and not following, giving him space as always; he’s too good to him, even now when he has every right not to be, and James really,  _ really _ doesn’t deserve him. He wrenches on the shower and waits until he hears the front door shut and the lock engage before stepping in under the spray.

The shower helps him calm down, his breathing slowing until he feels a bit saner. It’s hard to be upset under the spray, when everything is warm and soft, and the air is just thick enough with steam to make him conscious of his inhales and exhales. When he steps out, he has a plan.

He’s going to look in this stupid photo album, get some reassurance that it isn’t what he thinks, and then put it the fuck back and forget about it. This isn’t worth the headache he has, and it isn’t worth losing Q over. He’ll look, and never talk about it, because Q has always trusted him; James knows in his heart he can’t give Q the same level of trust, but he  _ can _ try, and he’ll do the best he can, even if he feels a stab of guilt as he removes the red album from its hiding place.

Moving to the bed, towel wrapped around his waist, James sits on the edge of the bed, fidgeting anxiously. He has time to put it back. He doesn’t have to look at the stupid thing. He can ask Q about it when he gets home tonight. Even as he says those things to himself, over and over until they’re echoing in his head, James opens the page to the first photograph again.

He knows he won’t be able to handle it if Q denies the album’s existence, or won’t talk about it when it does get brought up. James can’t let it go, even if he wishes he could.  

Taking a breath, he starts flipping through the book. The first few seem fairly innocuous. A puppy, a boat, the Eiffel Tower, a wobbly bike ride, missing front teeth - a childhood in snapshot. James is sure now, that the bespectacled and toothless kid grinning at the camera is his Q.

_ I shouldn’t be doing this _ . James sets the album aside, double checks the door is locked, pours himself a stiff drink and downs half of it. He stares out the window at London, towards where Q now is, at Six, working and completely unaware that his husband is digging into his past - even if it’s just photographs. James has none of his childhood, or early years. It’s not a fair trade; it’s not something he can reciprocate later.  _ You’re the other side of the equation, this time _ . He can’t stop himself though, and rationalizes it by calling it self preservation.

When he returns to the album, little Q is still grinning up at him, like nothing’s wrong with what he’s doing. He flips the page. The next photo, Q is holding hands with another young boy; he’s holding a flower, and the other is holding a necklace in a clenched fist. They’re both mid laugh and James can’t help but smile slightly. Q’s next photo has him frowning in concentration over a Rubik’s Cube.  _ The dawning of a genius. _ James smiles again, this time more fondly.

The next two photos definitely have a story. The first is of Q in hospital, sporting two casts, one on each arm. He’s asleep, but he can’t be older than ten, still little. James spends a few minutes trying to sort out what kind of accident Q must have gotten into for such a serious injury, but the following photograph just proves how little something like broken arms slows someone like Q down. He’s writing with both hands, scrunched over a desk in concentration, but James can just make out that the script is slightly different in each one. Not only is Q writing with both hands at the same time, but he’s writing different things.

A new page and new photos. Q is sitting in front of a computer - a loosely defined computer, at least - and James can tell it’s old (probably brand new at the time). The next photo makes James’ eyes widen in surprise. Pre-teen Q, standing in front of an Aston Martin, his father’s arm slung around his shoulders. Both men are covered in grease to their elbows, and Q has the most adorable baggy overalls on, stained down the front with motor oil and scuffing. It reminds him of the ones he wears in his workshop when he gets to tinkering on engines and doesn’t want to ruin his clothes.

James’ eyes are drawn to the window again, across London towards Q, and sighs through his nose, taking a long pull from his glass, even as his phone pings in the other room. Standing, he moves to fetch it, finally pulling on sweats instead of a towel. His gut clenches at the blinking text alert that flashes up on the screen, unlocking the phone to scroll through the message.

_ I know things have been a bit off since we first moved into the new place. I’m sorry I’ve left you with most of the unpacking. I don’t know what was going on this morning and I don’t need to, I just want you to know that I love you, and I have your back. Always. I’m here with you. -Q _

Q really is something else, something James bitterly loves and admires. He has the ability to blindly trust, something James simply doesn’t have; either he’s never had it to begin with, or the feeling has been beaten down over time and experience. It gives Q a soft glow around the edges in James’ mind’s eye, just like his favorite electronics. He also has ironic timing, just like his electronics, and James stares at the screen for a full minute, trying to sort himself through the wave of emotion that rears its head at him. Love, hurt, shame, guilt, jealousy. Another ping, another text.

_ Listen, if it’s something I’m doing, can you tell me when you’re able? I want to help with whatever’s been on your mind, but I don’t know how. -Q _

James downs his drink, leaves the phone on the table, the feelings too strong. He paces to the room, then back again, dithering about and completely off keel. He’s off balance, he feels awful, and anxious, and a mess of emotions are crawling up his throat and choking him, even as he finally picks up the phone and sends a response.

_ Why are you hiding things from me? -JB _

It’s vague, sure, but Q will know he found the album. What else can James mean, after all? James waits, standing there, heart in his throat. Q will respond. He’ll say something soothing, something to help calm him down until the young man gets home later, they’ll talk about it. It’s going to be fine. Something raw curls in his chest, shaking itself back and forth, hackles up - no, it’s not going to be fine.

Q’s answering text, when it comes, makes James feel nauseous, a pattern forming and spiralling down through his mind, making him want to run, to fight, to scream because  _ why _ was this happening again? He’s seen this dance enough times to fill several lifetimes; he refuses to see it happen again. He’ll get the album, go through the rest, and demand answers.

_ Don’t look at it. Leave it alone. -Q _

He empties the rest of the bottle into his glass and stalks determinedly back to the bedroom, where the album is resting open to a gutted Aston Martin and a father-son photograph that James can’t look at too closely without more than a touch of jealousy. His phone pings in his hand in quick succession several times, then buzzes as Q calls. James doesn’t answer, just stares down at the texts.

_ James, don’t look in it. It’s mine. It’s private. -Q _

_ I promise, it’s nothing you have to worry about. -Q _

_ Don’t you dare. Call or text me. -Q _

_ Please, James. -Q _


End file.
